


The pursuit of happiness

by orphan_account



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, F/F, F/F/F, Lexa's dildo collection, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Roleplay, Rough Sex, Smut, but only apparently, improper use of a saddle, just porn, not even a hint of plot, self steering horse, unduly cute at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-10 13:15:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10438509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Clarke has escaped Polis, but Lexa has sent her best General to track her down





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm putting a TW on this - all of the interactions between characters in this fic are grounded in consent but this is not particularly apparent in the first chapter and probably won't be for most of the second. Please don't read it if that's going to distress you.

Clarke is starting to sweat. The evening is cool, but she’s been traveling for several hours now, and the terrain is not easy. And every time she slows, thinking she’s finally shaken her pursuer, she hears it in the distance - the thump of hooves, the clink of the horse’s bit.

If she can hold out until dark, she’ll have a better chance. Riding over this ground in the dark – you might as well take out one of the horse’s legs with a fighting stick. It's a long shot anyway – she is no grounder, and even if it is invisible to her, for a good tracker she's pretty sure she could only have made a trail more obvious if she’d been posting flags. She clenches her fist tighter around the staff she is carrying. She isn’t proficient with it, but thanks to the training Octavia had given her, she has a half a shot, she think.

The light is definitely going, the detail of things – the red and gold of leaf fall, the mesh of the undergrowth, all now falling into shadow. She keeps moving, her feet quiet. Despite this, the soft rattle of drying leaves sound like alarms to her. A difficult time of year to be ghosting through the woods. Still, she has to try. She owes herself that.

The woods, as they grow darker, are surprisingly silent. Apart from the whisper of her boots brushing through leaf litter, there’s not even the occasional sound of a bird nor a hint of wind to disturb the quiet. Clarke feels the crawl of anxiety up the nape her neck, the prickle of the skin at the base of her skull. It’s too quiet. She stops and listens, stares into the twilight so hard her eyes ache. But there’s nothing.

The darkness grows more dense as she waits. She feels like a deer, ready to bolt. She feels like prey.

Tightening her grip on the stave, she begins to move forward. There’s a large clearing ahead of her. She debates edging around it, matching her silhouette to those of the trees. It would be quicker to take a run across it, and in the haze of night falling, in the faded black of her clothes, she thinks she might be nearly invisible. The silence has spooked her, and she feels the need to flee, the nervous burn of acid in the muscles of her legs. 

She takes the chance, boots making only the smallest muffled thudding aginst the rough grass as she goes. The air flows past her, so she feels as though she is making wind, and it blows the anxiety off her. She’s fast now, she know, every muscle toned, her movements efficient and quiet. She can barely imagine the soft pale thing that she was, only eight months back, flung from the permanent, frictionless darkness of space. 

Now she’s Wanheda. Not quite a warrior; something more.

She gathers herself, and runs – an easy run, alert for rocks and roots in the near-darkness. Still, she’s starting to feel her escape in her legs, and her breath is less silent than it had been.

And of course it is a mistake. The prickle in her skin, the silence of the woods – she should have trusted her senses. In space, maybe thinking was enough, but down here, among the trees, she must remember that she is an animal.  
One that is being hunted.  


She’s nearly made it to the other side when the weight hits her, the ground coming up so fast she can’t even register it, and it is only the bruising grasp of hands at her torso that saves her from slamming into the turf. The stave bounces away into the darkness. She feels herself dragged upright, and there’s the press of a lean body against her back, a hand’s grip on her hipbone, strong fingers tight against her throat, forcing her head up.  
And hot breath against her ear - the rasp of the warrior’s voice.

‘You’ll have to be quicker than that, sky girl.’  
There’s a note in it – a cold sort of triumph. She can’t suppress a shiver and she knows that the warrior feels it, she hears it in her exhalation, in the transitory tightening at her neck. The movement of the woman’s mouth against the helix of her ear feels like a smirk. 

‘Afraid, Wanheda? Are you not the Commander of Death?’  
‘What are you going to do with me?’ Clarke’s question comes out higher than she’d intended.  
‘That’s for Heda to decide. You’re hers now, sky girl.’ The warrior releases her hold on Clarke’s neck to run her fingers over the ink marks that show under her clavicle. The skin of her fingertips is warm and rough, and Clarke shivers again. 

‘If I let go of you, are you going to do something stupid, Wanheda?’ She taps her fingers against Clarke’s collarbone. Clarke swallows.  
‘Answer me.’  
Clarke shakes her head, and the long fingers slide away from her skin, the pressure on her hipbone disappears. Immediately, she wheels, twisting her weight into the impact her shoulder makes, and the warrior staggers backwards. Clarke forges forward, pressing for the advantage of momentum, and the second hit knocks the grounder off her feet. Rather than start a fight she cannot win, she takes the moment’s advantage that she has, and flees.

Under the trees, near-blackness – she has to ease her pace or she will turn an ankle, and escape will be impossible. Her night vision is good, though – a childhood of failing lights, of the unendurable dark of space, has trained her in this, at least. She moves swiftly, quiet as she can, deeper into the woods. As she travels farther, and her heartbeat eases to a rate that feels survivable, she starts to think she might make it, after all. One day’s further march.

It’s a foolish thought, because no sooner has it passed through her mind then she’s slammed into the ground with the full length of her pursuer stretched over her. There’s something hard under her ribs, and she knows that there’ll be bruising. They’re both panting, the warrior’s hot breath at the nape of her neck. She struggles, but strong hands manacle her wrists, and the other woman’s weight drops down and pins her to the ground, while her feet are kicked apart, preventing her from finding a purchase to force herself up. So Clarke stills, defeated, and the woman shifts on top of her. The leaf litter on the ground tickles against the skin of her face, and she breathes in the scent of earth and dampness, and with it the warrior’s scent of leather and sweat, and faintly some citrus tang. Despite everything, there’s something soothing about it, something oddly wholesome. A childhood in the stink of recycled air, tainted with chemicals – almost every earthly odor is a gift. 

She’s flipped, suddenly, the woman lifting herself up for an instant, then straddling her. She can’t see her in the dark, but she doesn’t have to – she feels her weight tip forward, the tilt of her pelvis against her belly and the press of her thighs adjusting against her sides as she grips Clarke’s wrists in one hand, and she can visualize the expression her face as she speaks.  
‘I’m disappointed, Clarke’ she says, and Clarke feels her thread something – a thin rope, a strip of leather – around her wrists using her free hand.  
‘Now I must take you back trussed like some common criminal.’ She binds her, quick handed, and the tether is too tight to waste energy struggling against, but not so much so that her wrists will chafe.  
‘I’m going to get up’ she announces, rolling her weight back, so that her ass rests for a moment between Clarke’s hip bones, and as she tenses to rise, her body presses down, and Clarke feels an unsettling jolt through her pelvis in response to that pressure. Then she is rising, leaving cold air to raise goose-bumps on Clarke’s body where the contact had been.  
‘No further foolishness,’ she warns, standing over her, her voice dropping out of the darkness. Clarke does not respond.  
‘No more attempts to escape. Say it, sky girl’ she growls.  
‘I won’t try to escape again, Anya.’ The warrior huffs at the sullen note in her voice, and drags her to her feet. Clarke can’t help the pained exhalation that escapes her as she moves, the impact of the ground against her side that she knows she will feel for several days. It brings Anya’s hurried movements to a dead stop.  
‘Are you hurt?’ she asks. Her tone is sharp, but the hand that reaches for Clarke is more gentle, its warm weight falling on her shoulder.  
‘It’s nothing’ Clarke snaps.  
‘Show me where’ the warrior demands.  
‘It’s just from the ground’ she says.  
Anya presses her palm against Clarke’s ribcage, and she cannot help releasing a tiny hiss. The warrior stands still for a moment, as if waiting for something. When she speaks again, her voice is cold.  
‘Perhaps you will think carefully before running, next time.’  
She steps behind Clarke, and pushes her shoulder.  
‘Let’s go, sky girl.’

The pace Anya sets back towards the clearing would be tiring even if it weren’t for the darkness and the binding of her wrists and the newly forming bruises along her flank; Clarke can do nothing but stumble along in front of her. Soon, her breathing is audible. Anya lopes behind her, silent and dangerous, occasionally correcting her course or catching her as she trips with a hard grip at her elbow. It’s humiliating. 

At the clearing, they stop, and Clarke bends, slightly, her lungs griping against the effort she’s expended.  
‘Still soft as Skaikru.’ The derision chafes in a way that the leather strap at her wrists could not. She tries to control the flow of her breath. Anya steps closer – she can see her now, the light of the rising moon catching the slice of her cheekbones, the scornful curve of her mouth. She looks hard at Clarke, her eyes sweeping slowly up and down; she catches how they linger, and she flushes. She pulls her bound arms further in front of her body and glares; the warrior laughs, a soft, amused sound that twists her mouth into a smirk.  
‘Don’t worry, Wanheda’ she says, and her tone is almost warm. ‘Heda charged me to return you untouched.’ Her gaze dips down again, and the smirk deepens.  
‘Pity.’ She mouths it after a long moment, and turns away. The word, almost inaudible, nevertheless surges through Clarke like a pulse of electricity, and she inhales sharply. 

Anya’s eyes are fixed now on the other side of the clearing, as she purses her mouth and whistles. Clarke considers running again, but the taller woman’s hand rests on her arm, a possessive weight, and she realizes she can’t outrun her over the rough terrain with her hands bound awkwardly before her. 

She can’t escape.

She hears the horse before she sees it, emerging from the darkness of the trees. It’s the big grey – the Commander’s horse. For a second her breath freezes in her chest, but the horse is rider-less, and it trots up to Anya and stops with a snort. The warrior reaches out and grasps the bridle.

‘Time to take a ride, sky girl.’

Anya mutters something in Trigedasleng that Clarke doesn’t catch, and the horse stands still as she boosts her into the saddle. She clings uneasily to the animal, knowing that it wouldn’t obey her even if she were good enough on horseback to leave Anya standing in the clearing. The warrior swings herself into the saddle behind her, and they start moving even as she tugs Clarke tight against her, one hand firm on her hip as the other drops onto her thigh, reins threaded through a loose grip, giving the horse its head. 

Clarke holds herself rigid. She is wedged between the pommel of the saddle and the press of Anya’s pelvis, and she feels the warrior’s hands, where they rest on her, as burning weights. It feels like hours pass with the rhythm of the horse’s hooves against the turf rocking through her, and she struggles to keep her breath from catching. Eventually Anya slides her hand from her hip to the top of her thigh, curving her long fingers and pressing them gently against her, as she leans her head over Clarke’s shoulder. 

‘Why so tense, Clarke?’ Her voice is low, her breath warm against Clarke’s neck. ‘You know I will not harm you.’ Clarke can only shake her head, afraid that her own voice will give her away.  
‘Maybe there’s something I can do to help you to relax.’  
Anya’s mouth brushes the skin of her neck as she speaks, and she trails her fingers around the curve of Clarke’s inner thigh, while dropping the reins and placing her palm against Clarke’s ribcage, pulling her more securely against her own body. The horse continues its canter, as Anya’s sharp hipbones and soft breasts press Clarke’s back, the slight roll of her pelvis pushing Clarke against the rise of the pommel, and a flare of desire forces a soft sound from between Clarke’s lips. She feels the warrior note it, a quiver through her, and then her mouth is hot and open under Clarke’s ear, and the hand splayed at her torso pushes upwards, grazing the underside of her breasts.  
‘Why, Clarke - ’ she starts.  
‘I thought the Commander ordered that I wasn’t to be touched’ Clarke snaps.  
‘Who will tell her Clarke? You? Who do you think she would believe? A manipulative, lying _skaigada_ , or her _fos_ , who has served her with honour since the day she ascended?’  
There’s a note of amusement in Anya’s voice, along with the usual undercurrent of threat, Clarke thinks. She closes her teeth carefully around the lobe of Clarke’s ear and tugs. Her left palm slides from its place on Clarke’s thigh to rests at the base of her belly, so that the heel of her hand weighs lightly on her pubic bone. Her other hand pushes upwards to cup her left breast. She thumbs over her nipple, already firm under the fabric of her shirt, and cants her hips forward while pressing her left hand down, rolling Clarke’s pelvis against the saddle again, driving a gasp from her captive. Clarke feels the stretch of her lips, the tiny shock of her tongue’s tip where it traces the line of her neck. 

‘Don’t think I haven’t seen you watching me, sky girl. Don’t imagine I don’t know what you want.’  
She rocks her hips forward again, and Clarke bites back a moan. She feels Anya’s huff of laughter against her skin, hears the raggedness of it, and she knows if she could turn, if it were light enough to see, that the warrior’s eyes would be black, not brown; she knows, just as surely, that her own are the same, and she flushes deeper. 

The horse canters on, the steady rhythm a counter-point to the soft press of Anya’s pelvis against her, pushing her against the saddle. Her breath is rough, and the ache between her legs is building. She can hear the warrior’s breath catching, its uneven flow. Anya’s hand has burrowed under her shirt, and the roll of her fingers around Clarke’s nipple has her back arching. She feels teeth, suddenly, against the skin of her neck, a rough sound caught in Anya’s throat, and the grounder’s hand is tugging at the waistband of her pants. There’s a second of hesitation, the rise and fall of the horse beneath them, and then Clarke feels the slide of her fingers, calloused fingertips catching slightly on hair, then forced into the tight space between the saddle and her cunt. She can’t restrain a gasp as the length of Anya’s fingers settle between her labia. Clarke wants to cringe as her muscles tremble and clench at the tip of Anya’s index finger, where it rests at her entrance. It rolls against her with a maddening, inadequate pressure, echoing the gait of the horse. She wants to cringe but the shiver that runs through her is desire, not disgust.

‘So wet, Clarke. Soaking’ Anya gloats, drawing her fingers a little roughly through the slick groove of Clarke’s vulva, and forcing them back again, one fingertip driving for an instant inside, before retreating abruptly. Clarke is helpless to stop the twitch of her pelvis, her automatic attempt to follow the pressure, nor can she contain the quiet moan that wells from her throat. There’s an answering tilt of Anya’s hips, clamping her hand between Clarke’s pussy and the rise of the saddle, and her index finger presses inside again, while her palm compresses Clarke’s clitoris. Her moan is louder now. 

‘You want me to fuck you, sky girl?’ Anya’s teeth nip at her neck, hard enough, Clarke is sure, to leave a mark. ‘ _Seems_ like you do.’ 

Clarke snarls and strains upwards, trying to escape the soft rhythm of the warrior’s fingers, that are now moving gently against her inflamed flesh. The hand that was teasing her nipple moves sharply to her hip and bears down, and Anya’s fingertip is probing once again at her entrance. She chokes on another unwanted moan, and Anya laughs. 

‘I think you’d like it, wouldn’t you?’ Her voice is low – coarse with want, Clarke realizes, and even as the fog of unwanted desire threatens to derail her own thought processes, she begins to wonder if this is something she can use.  
‘I think you want more than this - ’ she pushes her index finger further, and Clarke feels her muscles clasp around it, despite herself, and the warrior laughs again, a small, pleased huff of laughter.  
‘Tell me, Clarke – shall we ride all the way to Polis like this,’ and she just withdraws her finger, leaving it to tease at her entrance, and Clarke immediately begins to ache again ‘or would you like me to give your greedy little cunt the fuck it’s asking for?’  
She shoves the fingertip back in, and Clarke moans again as her flesh yields to it, as Anya pulls against the ring of muscle, opening her up. Her hips jerk, and Anya’s hand smears against her clit, pushing a high sound, a wordless plea, from the back of her throat.  
‘What was that, Clarke? Is there something you want?’ She pulls her finger back again, but Clarke feels the tremor running through her, the unsteady breath at the nape of her neck, and she feels the ache, again, that Anya leaves behind and even though she stays silent, her body presses back against the warrior’s. 

‘Very well.’ Anya’s voice is a little strained, but she kicks into the horse’s flanks, driving it onward. Clarke feels the slide of her hand over the curve of her hips, soft over the bruising to her side, and then, like an small shock, the rough skin of her thumb dragging over her nipple again. The warrior holds her long digits still along the length of Clarke’s cunt, though the horse’s movement causes them to jostle against her anyway, sending regular, unbearable flares of need through her pelvis. She tries to bite it down, but she is hanging on the edge, lightheaded and pulsing, and the hot press of Anya against her, the hoarseness of her breath, eventually drives a whine from her.

‘Is there something you want?’ the general asks her again, her hips shifting against Clarke’s back. Her mouth is dry, and if she could speak at all, she knows the sound would be a broken croak.  
‘Clarke?’ Anya drags her fingers up, and rubs a soft circle around her clit, and Clarke whines again.  
‘ _Jok_ ’ Anya breathes, as her captive’s hips jerk and her back arches.  
‘Anya.’ The name comes out firm, the first term of a demand. The warrior’s hand leaves Clarke’s breast, and she pushes forward against her, reaching for the reins. Anya grunts some Trigedasleng phrase and the horse draws to a stop. It snorts and stamps as Anya wrenches her hand from between Clarke’s legs and swings herself to the ground but Clarke has no time to even register the cold air that replaces it, before she is dragged out of the saddle, tipped into the General’s arms. 

In the near darkness under the trees, she can barely make out more than Anya’s outline. The taller woman wraps her arms around her shoulders, tight as a binding, and Clarke’s face is pressed into her chest as she is walked backwards until her back hits an obstacle. The trunk of a tree, she guesses, completely blinded against Anya’s chest with her hands bound and caught between their bodies. The scent of the warrior’s body - like leather and new mown hay, and the faintest lemon tang - is overwhelming; she breathes it deep. Anya’s chest expands and contracts, as she pants and drags at Clarke’s clothes. She pulls herself away to force Clarke’s bound hands over her head and pins them with one hand against the rough bark of the tree, while her other hand rips her shirt open, and suddenly Clarke torso is bared to the cold night air. The warrior dips forward, and Clarke flushes as another whine escapes her, when the other woman’s hips pull away from her. But then Anya’s mouth closes around one nipple, and rough fingers drag at the other - her head slams back into the tree, and she moans at the current that courses through her. She feels Anya’s mouth curving into a smile around her nipple, before the soft scrape of teeth and the deliberate stroking of her tongue pushes Clarke beyond discrete thought, and she succumbs entirely to the sensation. Her hips thrust forward, seeking contact, and she barely observes the catch in the General’s breath, but suddenly Anya is yanking at her pants. She begins to drop her hands, but Anya immediately slams them back hard, so that the bark of the tree scrapes the skin of her wrists.  
‘Don’t move’ she snarls, and whatever thoughts Clarke may have had of escape recede.

She makes short work of Clarke’s pants. Too impatient to strip them from her completely, they catch on Clarke’s boots, tethering her at the calf. The warrior doesn’t pause to toy with her, but forces Clarke’s thighs apart and slides her hand back into the soaked groove of her cunt. Two fingers rest momentarily against her entrance, and even in the darkness Clarke can make out her smug smile as the muscles twitch. She is sure that her fingers are already soaking, before she strokes them, once, back to her clitoris, and then she ploughs them into her, and Clarke shouts a curse into the woods. ‘Fuck’ Anya breathes, pulling them out, pushing back in again, her hips following. She repeats this, steady and slow, too much and not enough, until Clarke is whimpering. But she is hunched slightly, and the twist of Clarke’s pants prevents her from hoisting her onto her hips, and driving into her with the force that Clarke wants to beg her for.

‘Anya’ she pants. ‘Anya.’  
The warrior pauses.  
‘Please’ Clarke husks. Anya makes an impatient noise, a half growl, and suddenly she spinning Clarke, then laying her down on the turf. Leaf litter and twigs scratch at her back but all of Clarke’s attention is fixed on the woman leaning over her. Her fingers push back inside, and her thumb sweeps over her clit. Clarke’s hips jerk upwards. Anya’s teeth are at her neck, her tongue and lips swiping over the trail she makes. She pushes Clarke’s knees as far apart as she can with her own knee, and drives her fingers in again and again, curling them.  
‘Clarke’ she groans, her breath ragged, her own hips twitching. Without changing pace, she works another finger in, and Clarke hears a soft keening sound that she barely realizes she is making herself, as the electrifying pressure of orgasm approaches. She hangs on its edge, her hips taut and rising, the breath caught in her chest, as Anya slams into her and draws a hard circle around the nub of her clit. She hangs, desperate to fall, reluctant to, nothing existing except the overwhelming stretch of herself around Anya’s hand, and then she’s falling, melting, nothing but the sensation, as she comes. It might be her voice wailing into the night as she disintegrates, rigid then collapsing, while the General is gently moving her fingers inside her, her cunt clenching around them. The little frissons of orgasm ebb away, and the breath floods out of her, and if she were fully returned to herself, she would wonder at the soft look on Anya’s face. As though she realizes this, the warrior dips her face into Clarke’s neck, and her mouth moves, hot and easy, over her skin. 

They lie for a moment, until Clarke’s pulse settles, and then Anya withdraws her fingers, and Clarke feels and immediately rejects the empty sensation she leaves behind. 

‘We should go, sky girl. It’s another hour to Polis, and if we don’t get back soon, Heda will send warriors.’

She stands, and pulls Clarke up after her. With bound hands, she can only drag her shirt together, tucking it sloppily into the loosened waistband of the pants she yanks back up. Anya is already pulling at her before she manages to tie them closed. She leads her in silence back to the horse, which hadn’t moved. Clarke allows her self to be hoisted up, and again, they are moving forward almost before Anya gains her seat. Now the saddle is too hard against her, the flesh of her cunt sore from Anya’s rough hands. She wonders idly if the General is uncomfortable. The thought of the grounder, soaked and sliding in the saddle just behind her, draws a twitch between her legs despite the ache of hard use that has her flinching from the leather. She forces the thought away. It’s not her problem.

They ride in silence back to Polis.


	2. Chapter 2

‘Heda.’  
Anya forces her onto her knees, roughly enough that the General’s firm grasp of the leather bindings at her wrists are all that keep Clarke from falling onto her face. The weight of her own body drags at the sockets of her shoulders painfully for an instant, and she gasps. When she settles, she feels the brush of fingertips at her neck, but before she’s even sure of it, the sensation is gone.

‘Wait.’  
Lexa doesn’t look up from whatever paper it is she has been absorbed by; the great table in the centre of the War Room is littered with missives and charts, and Clarke knows that the Commander has likely spent the day poring over them. There’s peace in the north now, but it’s a prickly one, dependent on endless small efforts, more mercantile and bureaucratic than military. These papers matter as much as any battle plan, and even though the petty detail of it frustrates and infuriates her, Lexa undertakes the work with the same commitment as any other part of her role. 

It does nothing for her mood though. Clarke shivers.

She keeps them there. Outside, Clarke hears footsteps in the corridor, but no-one enters the War Room. The heavy tread of guards patrolling, and then distantly, voices. It’s late, but the Commander continues to read diligently, as though they are not there. The boards of the floor, smoothed though they are by decades of pacing Generals, begin to bite at Clarke’s knees, and she hears minute adjustments in Anya’s stiff stance behind her – the slight scrape of her boot shifting, the shucking of cloth as she moves. Her thighs burn from holding herself steady, and the stickiness between her legs grows uncomfortable. She resists the urge to sag back against the General; in any case, she knows she would be met with hard fingers, prodding her back into place. 

Lexa’s eyes remain fixed on the paper she is holding, and it seems as though the air grows thick. 

The candles have burned low by the time she sighs, and raises her head. She puts the document aside and rises, her movements neat and graceful. Clarke feels her stomach flip as she approaches, her eyes dark and unreadable in the low light. She stops a pace away, and gazes down at her. For a moment, she is still, silent. Then she raises her eyes to her General.

‘You have done well’ she says, her voice soft, but cool. She steps past them. ‘Bring her’ she commands, not looking back as she glides towards the door.

Clarke feels a fresh spike of adrenalin as Anya drags her back to her feet. She stumbles, stiff from holding a position for so long. The warrior’s fingers dig into her arm as she draws her after the Commander.  
‘Move’ she growls, her eyes fixed on Lexa’s back, and Clarke can only comply. 

They walk the corridors in silence. Clarke knows exactly where she is being taken, and her breath keeps catching in her chest. Anya slows her stride, just slightly, and her grip softens. ‘Perhaps Heda will be merciful’ she says, voice barely above a whisper ‘in recognition of your past service.’ Clarke can’t help the derisive sound that pushes past her lips at this. Ahead of them, Lexa continues at a steady pace. She shows no sign of hearing their interchange – still, her voice comes, clear, peremptory.

‘Silence.’ The single word echoes in the corridor. Anya’s grip on Clarke’s elbow tightens once more. 

Anya dismisses the guard as they enter, following Heda into her most private space. The room is ablaze with candles, warm light gilding the surfaces it falls over, and creating dense voids in contrast where shadows fall. Lexa stands in its centre, and Clarke's breath fails her again. She has opened her coat, and the candlelight catches on her collarbones. Her braids are drawn back from her face, but here and there wisps of hair spill forward, displaced by the tug of her hands as she focused on the papers on the War Room table. Her expression is composed, plush lips only just closed, no tightness in her jaw. Clarke catches the twitch in her fingers, though – the Commander is far from relaxed, however she wishes to present herself. Anya is motionless beside Clarke, and she knows that the warrior is staring, too.

‘Restrain her.’ 

Anya grasps Clarke’s forearms and pushes her backwards until her shoulders meet the resistance of stone. She drags her arms up and slides the leather binding at her wrists onto an iron hook which has been fixed into the wall, Clarke suspects for this exact purpose. She knows better than to struggle, but slumps against the wall instead, choosing to conserve her energy for what lies ahead. Anya steps away from her, and waits.

Lexa approaches slowly, her footsteps silent. As she gets closer, Clarke is able to see her eyes more clearly. Black in the candlelight, intent, predatory. Her lips slightly parted now. Clarke’s pulse races, something close to panic overwhelming her.

‘I don’t recall, Ambassador, hearing your request for permission to leave Polis.’  
Lexa’s voice is quiet, but in the silence of this chamber she might as well be shouting.  
‘Heda’ she croaks in response.  
Dry mouthed, she couldn’t vocalize a defence even if she had one. Lexa draws closer, her eyes moving slowly over her.  
‘You are aware, Ambassador, that - ’  
The Commander stops speaking abruptly, and her hand snakes out. Her fingers suddenly press, cool and firm, against Clarke’s jawline, guiding her head up and to the right, exposing her neck. Her eyes narrow.  
‘What is this?’ she demands. Her fingers slide from Clarke’s jaw to her neck, where her index finger traces a circle. Clarke frowns, and then remembers the pressure of Anya’s teeth.

‘Anya.’ Lexa’s voice, still measured, is suddenly terrifyingly cold.  
‘Heda.’ Clarke can just discern the tremor in Anya’s response.  
The Commander turns slowly to the other woman.  
‘General, did you touch my Ambassador?’  
Anya does not speak, but after a moment, she gives a stiff, slight nod, then casts her eyes to the ground. Lexa turns back to Clarke.  
‘Tell me, Wanheda, did my General put her hands on you?’ She leans closer, so that Clakre can feel the warmth of her breath. ‘Did she take you, Ambassador, out there in the woods?’  
Clarke hangs her head.  
‘Speak, Wanheda. Did she disobey me, Ambassador? Did she fuck you as though you were her own instead of bringing you straight to Polis as she was instructed?’  
Clarke whimpers in response, but the silence grows, oppressive, accusing, until she squeaks out a yes.  
Lexa touches Clarke’s jaw softly. ‘Thank you’ she says quietly, ignoring her answering flinch. She turns away, steps closer to Anya.

‘Anya, who am I?’  
‘You are Heda.’ Anya is standing stiff and tall, her face expressionless.  
‘Wanheda, whose is she?’  
‘Yours, Heda.’  
‘And whose are you?’  
‘I am yours, Heda.’  
The Commander stares at her, motionless, her eyes black like the shadows in the room. The silence presses, Clarke feels its threat on her skin.

‘Strip.’

The command breaks the silence and the stillness. Clarke sees Anya’s shudder before she suppresses it and moves swiftly to obey. Metal and leather thud against the floor as the General bares herself before her leader. Her skin appears golden in the candle light, the sharp angles and long curves of her body picked out of the darkness. Her nipples are darkened knots, the muscles of her abdomen softly delineated in the flickering light. Clarke’s mouth, already dry, opens – she licks uselessly against the desiccated skin of her lips. Despite herself, she is assailed by the memory of the warrior’s hands - which are now hanging open by her sides - in motion on her skin, the rough pull and push of her long fingers, and she can feel the beat of her pulse building, and more insistently, an ache between her thighs.

The Commander’s face remains impassive, but her eyes are impossibly dark.  
‘On your knees’ she instructs. Anya drops instantly onto her knees.

‘I should have you whipped’ Lexa says. ‘Perhaps,’ she says, slowly, as though she is considering her words as she speaks, ‘I should whip you myself.’ 

She gazes down at her, her eyes running slowly over the other woman’s skin. Clarke cannot take her eyes from either of them. She can’t tell whether it’s fear or arousal that she feels more keenly. But suddenly Lexa is moving towards her with a dagger in her hand, and the balance between the two emotions flickers. The knife glints in the candle light. She flinches as the woman reaches for her, and then she only just catches herself as she falls forward into Lexa’s body-space, the leather strap that had bound her falling in pieces to the ground. Heat radiates from the Commander, and Clarke catches the warm, spiced scent of her skin. She breathes it in, helplessly, though it’s the last thing that she intends. Lexa’s hands curl around Clarke’s biceps as she rights her, then steps away. 

‘Come’ she says, gesturing for Clarke to follow her. 

In the anteroom, Lexa reaches into a large chest and extracts three smaller boxes. She hands one to Clarke. 

‘I wish you to undress, and put this on’ she says. ‘Will you obey me?’ Her face is stern.  
‘If I don’t?’ Clarke tries. Her voice is ragged, forced from a dry throat.  
‘I am Heda, Clarke’ she says. ‘Please don’t be foolish.’  
Clarke gazes at her, her willowy form deceptively slight, her blackened eyes the only sign that anything about this power-play is not the normal business of politics. Clarke can’t think of an outcome to defying her that would improve her situation. She inclines her head, a quiet assent, and begins to open her shirt. She hears the tiny catch in Lexa’s breath, sees the pink tip of her tongue slide against her lip for an instant before it disappears again, as she discards the garment on the anteroom’s floor. Lexa turns away.  
‘When you are ready, you will join us’ she states. Her voice is lower than it was. She slips out of the room without looking back.

Clarke undresses quickly. She is happy to be free of her sodden undergarment, even if the air is cool. She wants to blame the temperature for the painful tightness of her nipples, but the heated dampness between her legs makes that fiction impossible to sustain. When she is naked, she opens the box.

It’s not clothing.

The straps are simple enough to work out – even if she’s never worn one herself, she’s seen how they fit. These straps are well-cared for, oiled leather, and careful, meticulously stitched padding where the fit would otherwise chafe against the skin of her hip. The toy itself is lighter than it looks. It’s made from bone, she thinks. Bone from some large animal – she can’t close her fingers around it. Its base flares, and the way it is shaped makes no sense to her until she slots it into the strap and tightens it, and feels her clitoris rest in a groove in the bone, while the rest of the base is tight against her, and will nudge inside, she is sure, if she applies a particular kind of pressure at the tip. She tests it, pushing down slightly on the shaft, and gasps. Then she pulls it upwards gently, and feels the bone groove circling her clit biting in, and has to struggle not to moan out loud. She runs her hand around the shaft again, and feels an unevenness to its texture – on closer examination, broad striations are carved into it. She imagines the sensation these shallow grooves might create, and her breath catches. The head of the dildo is smooth, so smooth it shines, and is slightly angled, slightly flared. She runs her hand over it, and takes a deep breath.

She knew, before she returned to their presence, what Heda expected from her now. Still, the sight of Anya, naked and on her knees, stops the breath in her chest, and she feels a flush rising on her skin. Lexa is seated in a chair that bears a strong resemblance to her throne. Her eyes are hooded, and fix on Clarke the moment she steps into the room. Anya – she can hear the General’s intake of breath as she enters, naked and preceded by the bone cock. Even in this low light, she can see the war between humiliation and desire that Anya is enduring. 

‘General’ Lexa commands from her seat. ‘You will submit to the Ambassador.’  
‘Heda’ Anya replies, so low it is almost a growl. And then she turns and bends over, raising her ass, her forehead to the ground. Clarke can’t take her eyes from the smooth expanse of Anya’s ass, the darkened slice down its centre, which glistens even in candle light. Not even when Lexa starts to speak.

‘The General has taken what is mine, Ambassador. You will take it back for me.’

Clarke tears her eyes away from the beautiful groove of Anya’s cunt for a moment. She would argue with the logic, but she knows it would be a waste of breath, and in any case, she wants to comply. She is burning to touch Anya, to slide the bone cock inside her and fuck her until she begs Clarke’s leave to come. Lexa is ostensibly relaxed, but Clarke can see the underlying tension, the predatory blackness of her gaze. She is idly stroking the other box she had retrieved in the anteroom. Clarke wonders what it contains, and cannot repress a shiver. She sees Lexa catch the movement, the slight quirk of her lip.

‘Begin’ she orders.

Clarke approaches Anya carefully. She is well aware of the grounder General’s abilities, and supposes that there is a possibility that this submission might prove too much. But her slow approach is as much due to concern about her own abilities as Anya’s – if the warrior is suffering an internal battle, Clarke wants desire to win it. She can see, as she gets closer, the inflamed nub of the General’s clitoris, the way her lips are split open, dark-rose and glinting with want – she feels an answering throb against the warmed bone between her own legs. She stands behind her, gripping the cock, lip pulled between her teeth.

‘Ambassador.’ Lexa’s voice would be stern, if there weren’t a crack in it.

Clarke steps closer, and the tip of the cock bumps gently against the warrior’s ass. The sound that Anya makes then is half-groan, half-gasp, and there is an answering catch in Clarke’s breath, and in Lexa’s. Clarke flicks her eyes over the Commander, who is now leaning forward in her chair, eyes fixed on the movement of the dildo , its gentle nudging at Anya’s ass. Her lips are slightly parted. Clarke recognises the look on her face. 

She grasps the cock more firmly, and guides it downwards, bumping it gently against Anya’s labia, listening to the increasing harshness of her breath. She rubs it along the seam of her cunt, until there is a give and the tip slides into the wet channel between her lips and is dragged, as if by a gravity peculiar to Anya’s body, towards her entrance. Clarke drags it back firmly, forcing it along the groove towards her clit – the movement presses the cock’s base into her own pussy, and she gasps. She slides it over and around Anya’s clit, and hears the moan the General can’t quite contain. On the chair in front of them, she can hear Lexa moving, but she can’t focus on anything but the shuddering of Anya against the bone cock. She slides it back to Anya’s entrance, and presses gently. The slight pressure is thrown back against her own cunt, and want rolls through her – she withdraws, then presses forward again. The warrior moans again, louder. She rolls her hips forward, and the tip catches against the muscle ring – she pulls back, and Anya whispers a curse. She smiles and leans forward. ‘You want it now, do you?’ she whispers, and rolls her hips forward again. The head of the dildo catches, and she pushes in a little before withdrawing again.

Suddenly Lexa is at her side, her fingers hard on Clarke’s forearm, her voice low and clear.  
‘Ambassador, you will fuck the General as I have instructed you to, and you will not stop until I tell you to. Do you understand?’  
Clarke swallows. She grips the base of the dildo and guides it back to Anya’s entrance. She grasps Anya’s hip with her free hand and begins to push. 

It’s tight. It takes a harsh thrust of her hips to force the flared head past the ring of muscle, and Anya’s gasp isn’t just pleasure, Clarke knows. She stills for a moment, despite Lexa’s presence at her side, and strokes the warrior’s back, leaning over her. The Commander chooses to ignore this momentary disobedience, stepping behind Clarke. She feels heat radiating from the presence behind her, unsettling in a way that makes her clench around the bone protuberance nestling between her legs. But then her attention is diverted back to Anya, who pushes back against her.  
‘You heard the Commander, Sky Girl. Fuck me’ she growls. 

So she does. She swings her hips against Anya’s ass, forcing more inches inside. The General curses into the floor boards. Clarke adjusts her grip on the warrior’s hips, and begins a steady grind, the resistance of Anya’s cunt to the girthy dildo sending a delicious feedback to her own. Her breath grows louder, from the exertion and the steadily building pleasure she is experiencing. Anya is gasping and swearing. Clarke wants to drape herself over the General’s body, to roll her nipples between her fingers, to stroke her clitoris until she is begging, but she isn’t sure she can keep the momentum going in this position if she lets go of the taller woman’s hips. Behind her, she can hear soft, uneven breaths, and then suddenly Lexa is pressed against her back, and her hands are stroking up her sides and sliding over her breasts, and then the Commander’s calloused hands are grasping, quick and clever, at her nipples, and even as she tips her hips forward, the cock fully embedded inside Anya now, the roll in and out marked by noises in Anya’s throat, unintelligible and glorious, and the wet slap of Clarke’s body against the warrior’s soaking cunt, even as she does so she feels the unmistakeable rush approaching, and her breath hitches, high notes suddenly sounding, and she knows that she is about to come.

And so does the Commander. Her hands are immediately firm at Clarke’s hips, halting her movement.  
‘Stop’ she commands.  
The pressure on Clarke’s hips increases, as she pulls her backwards, dragging the dildo from Anya’s cunt.  
‘No-one will come without my permission’ the Commander states as Anya collapses onto the floor with a whimper.  
‘Get up’ she says, after a moment, to Anya, who forces herself to her feet. She has a dazed look. Lexa peers at her for a moment.  
‘Ambassador, you may kiss the General’ she says quietly, retreating. 

Clarke steps closer to Anya, and she can see a sort of exhausted tension in her face – if it were anybody else, she would say they were on the cusp of tears. She reaches cautiously for the taller woman’s face, angling it down, and brushes her lips against the warrior’s mouth. ‘Alright’ she whispers, and presses a little more firmly, until Anya’s lips part slightly, and begin to respond. She runs her other hand up Anya’s arm, and draws her closer. ‘Alright’ she whispers again into her mouth, and then softly trails her tongue against her lip. Anya whimpers and presses back and then they are kissing properly, deep and slow, and Clarke feels Anya begin to relax against her.

‘Enough’ Lexa directs, a moment later, and they separate. 

When they turn to her again, the Commander is back in her chair. She is sprawled, her coat finally discarded, her hands in her lap. Clarke looks again. One hand resting on her thigh, the other wrapped around a slender gold protuberance which juts from her opened pants. She can’t help herself, she steps closer. Lexa is gently stroking a dildo made of gold, her hooded eyes flitting over their naked forms. A dildo made of gold.

‘Commander’ she says.  
‘I _am_ Heda’ Lexa replies, the ghost of a grin passing over her face. She stands up and steps towards them.  
‘Ambassador, please sit.’ She gestures towards her vacated chair. Clarke perches on its edge and waits, as Lexa strips her pants and boots off. The gold cock bobs as she moves. Clarke has to resist the urge to reach out and touch it.  
‘General.’ Anya moves forward.  
‘You will help the Ambassador – I wish her to wear this.’ Lexa points to yet another box.  
‘Heda.’  
Anya’s hands are warm and firm against Clarke’s hips as she unbuckles the leather straps. She catches Clarke’s eye and allows her face to soften briefly before snapping back to impassive.  
‘Up, Sky girl’ she says, then pulls the leather out from underneath her. Clarke whines softly as the dildo’s base eases from between her legs and slides onto the floor. She opens the box that Lexa indicated and draws out yet another dildo, this one smooth and black with a gentle curve in it. It’s a little longer than the bone cock, and not so wide. It fits differently, sitting against Clarke’s pubic bone. Anya tugs it into place and it nudges against Clarke’s clit, sending a small frisson through her. Anya catches the movement and smirks. She pulls it again, then drops her mouth to its tip, and circles it with her tongue, and Clarke can’t help the twitch of her hips, jerking the cock against her lips.  
‘General.’ Lexa’s voice surprises them both. Anya jumps back.  
‘Step away from the Ambassador.’

Being approached by Lexa, Clarke sometimes thinks, feels much the same as being approached by a panther – beautiful and terrifying and potentially lethal. Even now, when she is half naked and her lips are parted and her eyes are darkened and slow with desire, and the gold dildo is swaying with the movement of her hips as she walks, power radiates from her, like heat. Despite everything, all their history, the desire Clarke feels to submit to her will is overwhelming – it thrums through her, indistinguishable from the hammer of her pulse. She can hear her own breath, caught and ragged. And Lexa hears it too.

‘Ambassador.’ The title comes out on a breath. She steps closer and reaches out, runs her index finger along Clarke’s collar bone and down, the scrape of a single nail running over the pale skin of her breast to her nipple. She circles it, then brushes over it, gentle, with the pad of her finger. Clarke inhales sharply, and holds that breath as the Commander’s fingers drift lower, all of them now scratching over the skin of her belly, and lower, slow and firm, curling around the black shaft. She jerks it, a decisive movement, and Clarke gasps.

‘I wish you to please me, Ambassador. Do you think you can do that?’  
‘Y-yes Heda’ she exhales, and the Commander smiles.  
‘Good girl.’ She gazes down at Clarke, running her hand thoughtfully up and down the dildo, and then leans forward and presses her mouth to Clarke’s. Surprised, it takes her a second to respond, and before she manages to, Lexa pulls away, and turns around. She pushes back against Clarke, straddling her lap, and Clarke catches her intent. She grasps the Commander’s hip with one hand and uses the other to slide the head of the dildo along the furrow of Lexa’s cunt. Lexa rocks her pelvis against it, and Clarke can just hear the tiny whimper she releases. Unable to resist, she slides her hand up the shaft and lines her index finger up with it, so that it strokes against Lexa’s pussy along with the cock head. She can feel a trickle down to her palm immediately, Lexa’s desire slick and seeping. Her fingertip brushes the Commander’s clit and Lexa whimpers again, and it takes all of Clarke’s self-control not to drive the whole length of the dildo into her in one move. Instead, she slides the head against her entrance, and grasps her hips again, and begins, slowly, to ease her downwards.

‘Jok.’ The curse is soft, but it sends a pulse through Clarke, and her hips jerk upwards. The pressure of the base against her own clit drives a gasp from her. Lexa rocks back against her, and she thrusts up again, the shaft sliding deeper, the answering pressure beginning to wind her back towards the orgasm Lexa had denied her earlier. A whine escapes her, and she thrusts her hips up again, and the smooth cock slides further in. She is almost to the hilt, now. Lexa leans back against her, forces her hips down, and the dildo is wholly engulfed. Clarke can feel the hot smear of Lexa’s cunt tight against her pelvic bone, and she eases herself back in the chair, and plants her feet wide and firm against the floor, ready to start driving upwards. A small, high noise escapes Lexa’s throat, and Clarke can feel a tremor through her. But she presses down firmly in Clarke’s lap, and clears her throat, and murmurs ‘Be still, Ambassador.’ And then she raises her voice, addressing Anya, who has been standing in front of them, staring with wide eyes, blown pupils, her hands fisted in an effort to hold herself still.  
‘General’ says Lexa. ‘Kneel.’  
Anya drops to her knees.  
‘Closer’ Lexa commands, and Anya shuffles forward, until she is pressed between Clarke’s knees. Lexa reaches out and grips the back her head, her fist disappearing into the dark blonde streaks of the General’s hair. She pulls her forward carefully, until her mouth hovers over the tip of the gold cock.  
‘Suck it’ she whispers, and Clarke quivers underneath her. Anya slides her mouth over the cock head, her eyes fixed on Lexa’s face.  
‘Slowly now, Ambassador’ Lexa instructs, rocking very gently against Clarke’s pelvis once more. Clarke pushes upwards slowly, keeping the movement as smooth as she can, and the black dildo is buried, once more, inside Lexa, and the gold cock slides further into Anya’s mouth. The General exhales noisily through her nose, and Clarke notes the impatient twitch of her hips, as Lexa moans gently. She thrusts up again, searching for an easy rhythm, the black dildo sliding easily in and out, the wet sound of its movement counterpointing the harshness of Anya’s breath as she mouths around the gentle thrusting of the gold dildo and the little noises that Lexa is making, that grow rapidly higher in pitch. She can tell from the tightening arch of Lexa’s back that the Commander is close, and that knowledge, and the steady nudging of the dildo’s base against her own clit builds into an almost unbearable pressure. Anya’s eyes remain glued to Lexa’s face, and she wonders if Lexa is gazing back at the General. A hard twitch of her hips, control impaired by the encroachment of her own climax, jerks the gold cock from Anya’s mouth. A string of saliva clings between her lips and its tip, then breaks – the sight of her swollen lips, her hooded eyes drives a moan from Clarke, and her hips jerk up again. She hears Lexa whimper and sees her hand reach out again, curving around the nape of Anya’s neck, pressing her forward to take the cock again, but stroking gently against her skin at the same time. She feels fingers brush over her own, and then Anya’s warm hand covers hers where it grips Lexa’s hipbone. 

Clarke rolls her pelvis upwards, steady and firm, watching Anya tongue the length of the gold dildo, then suck it back into her mouth. She hears the high pitched whimpers Lexa can no longer bite back, feels her freeze, stretched taut, and thrusts her hips upwards, as hard as she can. And then the screamed curse, the sudden, erratic thrashing of her hips as the Commander comes, and the pressure inside of Clarke finally blows, and she topples after her, the stickiness between her legs becoming a hot tide that smears the seat beneath her. Lexa collapses against her, and she drops boneless back into the chair. She watches the gold dildo slides from Anya’s mouth, Lexa’s hand still on her neck, pulling the warrior forward to bury her face against Lexa’s belly. She slides the hand that Anya is not holding up the length of Lexa’s torso, to rest it just above her breast, and presses a kiss into the side of her head. They lie together in a heap until the loud sound of their breath fades. 

By the time her breath has evened out, Clarke is beginning to feel cramped and uncomfortable. She tries, carefully, to ease her hip away from the hard wood of the chair arm.  
‘You’re uncomfortable’ Lexa murmurs.  
‘I just need to - ’  
‘Let me’ Lexa raises herself slightly, and the dildo slips out of her. Anya rolls back onto her knees, and Lexa stands up.  
‘I didn’t mean - ’ Clarke begins, but Lexa shushes her.  
‘It is nearly time to rest’ she says. ‘There is just one more thing I would appreciate your help with, Ambassador.’ She is unbuckling the harness strapped around her hips as she speaks. The gold dildo makes a dull sound against the floorboards when it falls.  
‘Heda.’  
‘General, stand up’ she says to Anya, and the warrior springs to her feet. Clarke rises from the chair.  
‘You took your punishment well, General’ Lexa states.  
Anya inclines her head, but does not respond.  
‘There is, however, one more thing I wish you to give me.’  
‘Whatever you command, Heda.’  
Lexa steps closer.  
‘I wish to taste you General. I order you’ she moves her hands, runs her thumbs along the insides of Anya’s thighs ‘to spread yourself open for me’ - she presses the flat of her palms against Anya’s legs, pushing them apart - ‘and let me drink you up.’ She drops to her knees. A strangled sound escapes Anya’s throat.  
‘Ambassador, your support.’

Clarke moves behind Anya, settling her hands on the taller woman’s hips, as Lexa presses her face between her legs. She feels Anya’s gasp reverberate through her own chest, pressed as it is against the warrior’s back. The wet sound of Lexa’s tongue lapping against her General’s cunt burns through her, a throb starting up again at the apex of her thighs. She strokes a palm over Anya’s torso, and cups her breast, mouths the nape of her neck, scraping the skin there with her teeth. Anya trembles and moans. Clarke breathes her in, the scent of her skin mixed now, with the smell of Lexa. It’s delicious, maddening – she inhales as deeply as she can. And then Lexa’s hand finds hers where it rests on Anya’s hip, and pulls at it. It takes a minute for her to understand, since the Commander’s face is buried in Anya’s cunt, but when she does, she slides her hand around the curve of Anya’s ass, between her legs, and strokes softly at her entrance from behind. Anya’s hips buck forwards, and she curses, low and harsh, in Trigedasleng. It’s a strain on Clarke’s wrist, but she pushes a finger carefully into the soaking heat. She can feel from the pulsing grip around her finger that Anya is on the edge. She slides it further, pressing against the ridged flesh of the front wall of Anya’s cunt, and begins to roll her finger, forward and back. She’s surprised, but tries not to let it disrupt the rhythm that she is building, when she feels Lexa’s finger working its way in beside hers; she is not surprised at the loud sound this forces from Anya. She wraps an arm around the warrior’s torso, pulling her weight backwards, and pushes deeper. Her knuckles knock against Lexa’s, who pushes in in synchronicity, and she feels the snap of Anya’s muscles enveloping her, the sudden lock of her spine, and then the General beings to shake, her pelvis jerking, a stream of Trigedasleng spilling from her mouth in a near howl. She moves her finger more gently as Anya sinks against her. She feels Lexa’s slip out and senses more than sees the other woman slowly rising, kissing her way up Anya’s torso, until the General is enveloped between them. Clarke slides her finger from Anya’s cunt, and slips it thoughtlessly towards her own mouth to lick it clean, but she is stopped by the brush of Lexa’s hand against her wrist. She looks up to see her face, chin resting on Anya’s shoulder, the green-black of her eyes fixed on Clarke’s fingers.  
‘Mine, Sky girl’ she breathes. So Clarke raises her finger to Lexa’s lips and shudders as she sucks it in.  
‘You should share’ Anya mutters, her face buried in Lexa’s neck. Lexa gives Clarke’s finger a soft lick as she releases it, then turns her mouth to Anya’s head, dropping a kiss on it.  
‘Maybe next time’ Clarke smiles into her skin, and follows it with an open mouthed kiss.  
‘You’re tired, _fos_ ’ Lexa murmurs into Anya’s hair.  
‘I rode most of the way to Arkadia and back today.’  
Clarke smirks into her back. ‘Not that fast, though. I thought I was actually going to wind up visiting my mother.’  
‘Shhh’ says Lexa. ‘Let’s not talk about Abby now.’  
‘Your skill in the woods has improved’ Anya says quietly. ‘You’re harder to track.’  
They stand silently wrapped around each other for a moment. Clarke feels Lexa’s hand come to rest on her hip. She drops her head against Anya’s back and lets the warmth of her skin wash over her. And then she smiles as the warrior yawns against Lexa’s neck.  
‘Come’ says Lexa, stepping out of the embrace. She takes both of their hands and leads them to the bed.  
‘Take this off’ Clarke tells her, tugging at the shirt she is still wearing. She peels it off, and Clarke and Anya both stand, staring dumbly.  
‘What?’ she says.  
‘You’ says Clarke, stepping closer, trailing her hand over her skin. Anya smiles, and sits down, as Lexa leans into Clarke, hot breathed, and kisses her lazily. Clarke feels Anya’s fingers tracing, featherlight, down her ribs, and she breaks the kiss to look down at her.  
‘Is this – are you - ?’ Anya is frowning at the marks now faintly showing.  
‘It’s just bruising, Anya.’  
‘I’m sorry’ the warrior says, her fingers gentle against her skin.  
‘You’re hurt?’ Lexa’s voice is sharper, suddenly.  
‘It’s nothing, I fell.’  
‘Clarke.’  
She touches their faces.  
‘It was worth it, okay? Come on, it’s time to sleep.’  
Lexa narrows her eyes at her, and Clarke knows already she is going to have to field the healer in the morning. Instead of continuing the argument, she climbs into the pile of furs and flops down. She hears Anya’s sigh, watches her hand snake out to touch Lexa’s, the silent communication telling her to leave it for now, and then they follow Clarke, wrapping themselves around her. When they are settled, Clarke tucked against Anya’s side, Lexa’s face resting between Clarke’s breasts, and she hears their breathing slowing, she breathes out ‘Thank you. For playing my game’ Lexa’s mouth moves gently against the skin of her breast, and she murmurs into it ‘whatever pleases you, _niron_.’  
‘You do’ she smiles in reply. She thinks for a moment.  
‘You know, if there’s something that would please you, Lex?’  
There’s a moment’s silence, and Clarke feels Anya’s return to alertness.  
‘Well, there – Perhaps, after I return from the Glowing Forest, maybe - ’  
‘Anything, Lexa. Tell us.’  
‘Have you ever thought about’ She takes a breath. ‘Instigating a coup?’ she whispers it into Clarke’s skin.  
Clarke looks at Anya, and the General smirks.  
‘I think you’d find, Lexa, that we could instigate a _very_ effective coup.’  
Clarke feels the broad smile Lexa presses against her skin, and she wraps her arms around her, and presses harder into Anya’s side. This must be happiness, she thinks, suddenly - acute and overwhelming, it burns in her throat. But then Anya moves, her mouth meeting Clarke’s forehead in a lazy kiss, and the emotion settles. The warrior’s fingers are stroking her lower belly, aimless and soft, Lexa’s warm breath flows against her breast, and she feels the slow thump of her heart keeping time with theirs, and she drifts to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I imagine that Heda might consider that some sort of punishment is necessary for disobedient Generals who can't keep their hands to themselves.


End file.
